


For the Love of Sea and Sky

by Aifeifei



Series: Destiel Drabbles [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aviation, Bounty Hunters, Croatia, Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Marine, Paradise, Pilots, Second meeting, adriatic sea, aviary, ethereal, seaplane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aifeifei/pseuds/Aifeifei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a freelance seaplane pilot and he makes a long-awaited visit to a small ocean village in Croatia, where he visits an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Love of Sea and Sky

Dean could see his pretty seaplane, sleek black in colour with silver trim and a daunting legacy, out of the window of the cafe-pub. A warm breeze curled in on his face and he inhaled a long, blueberry-hinted breath of cigar through his lips. He’d missed Croatia, the bright red roofs on top of layers of sun-washed buildings, the unhurried dawdling of the people, and how unaware they all were of the terrifying, beautiful strength of sea and sky.  
Dean didn’t have respect for most tourist pilots in places like Kukljica and the surrounding areas, because they didn’t acknowledge how dangerous the sky could be. There was lots of sightseeing to be done, and lots of money to be made, and now everyone was turning to helicopters anyway. But Dean would be the first to say that stereotypes were not always right, and a true pilot could be the one showing travelling women their hotel from the sky.  
As Dean’s thoughts nudged this territory, speak of the devil ran through his mind and he tapped his cigar against the ashtray, making out a wing of the purest blue plane pulling in beside his. He glanced at the analog clock on the wall opposite him, just above the frail, old lady owner of the hotel and the keeper of the only remaining seaplane dock in Kukljica. Dean ran his other along the waxy tablecloth, nervously peering out the window to get a better view of the beautiful blue plane. He’d been amazed by it the first time he’d seen it, but not nearly as amazed as by the blue of the pilot’s eyes.   
Castiel Novak, a skilled flyer if Dean ever saw one, wasting his time as a tourist pilot, but that’s not what drew him in. He’d remembered the dark drawl of his voice, the humility in his walk, and the legend that seemed to dance under his footsteps. He remembered the Croatian rolling off of his tongue like honey, his few words, and his eyes looking right inside Dean as though he saw Dean’s soul. Dean remembers the way Castiel’s lips had felt on his neck, the skilled hands pressing into the flesh above his hips, the hands in his hair. He remembers the way Castiel’s chilled fingers had felt along his skin as he pulled Dean’s shirt over his head under the moonlight, their bodies bumping in Castiel’s seaplane at rest in the gentle waters out on the Adriatic Sea.  
Dean shivered at the memory, taking a whiff of his cigar, and he could feel his heart beating as a brown boot stepped off of the blue plane. Dean leaned back so he couldn’t be seen from outside the window and closed his eyes as the nervous fluttering in his chest fell back. Dean, one of the best bounty hunters in modern aircraft, was once ashamed of that weakness, as being involved with pretty boys was not generally in a pilot’s best interest. But then he met Castiel, and that changed, and he began to welcome that thrill.  
The jingle above the entrance door rang, and Dean took a puff of his cigar.  
“Well, my dear Castiel, it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other,” the old lady sang, walking to greet him with open arms. “Many tourists have asked where you’ve gone off to. There was a lady from Bosnia who came here only for you; what a shame it was to tell her that you were away doing some business.”  
Dean heard a small, low laugh, and he felt chills. He wasn’t able to see clearly through the layers of plants blocking his view from the door, but that was all as well, because Dean had asked for a private spot. “I’m sorry,” Castiel said. “But I’m back now, hopefully for a while. I can’t guarantee that, though.”  
“Oh, it’s all well. What does a pilot do for business anyway? Such a secretive culture, you have, love.”  
Dean could hear the gentle smile in his voice as Castiel said: “Don’t worry yourself about that, my Ankica. I’m here to visit a friend.”  
“Ah yes, well. I’ll let you get on that. You just come by eventually, and let me spoil you. Okay?” The lady dusted off her hair and hobbled back to her front counter  
“Yes, I promise,” Castiel said, stepping out so Dean could finally see him clearly. He felt his heart jump out of his chest, because Castiel was so beautiful, just as Dean remembered. Dean stood, resting his cigar on the ashtray, the breeze from the warm sea drifting in through the window. Castiel turned, and then Dean remembered… his plane is nothing compared to his eyes. The ocean itself is nothing.  
“Dean,” Castiel said, walking over, the collar of his aviary vest brushing against his sharp jaw. Dean pulled a slip of paper from his own coat, holding it in his hands so he didn’t fidget nervously.  
Dean opened the paper, but he didn’t look down at it. “Castiel. You said you’d be here at 6:30. It’s 6:32. You’re late.”  
Castiel smiled a bit and glanced down, as he walked until he ended up right in front of Dean, looking squarely in his eyes. “I flew as fast as I could,” he whispered.  
Dean put his piece of paper on the table, the small space between their noses filled with tension. “Your plane is as beautiful as the last time. You…”  
“Dean,” Castiel breathed. “My drug. I missed you.” Dean felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was trapped again, trapped staring down into those beautiful, deep blue eyes. Castiel closed his. “Sit down. Let’s talk. I want to make this time longer.”  
Dean pulled himself away from the man in front of him, watching as he swiftly pulled the wrought-iron chair out from under the table, settling himself into the space between tall wooden planks curling with kiwi vines and the crumbling brick of the hotel wall. Dean too sat down, the slight dusting of smoke from his cigar moving up between them. The late-day sun was caught in the cloud and on the sharp edge of Castiel’s face, and it was gorgeous. The dark-haired man reached for the ashtray, gingerly picking up the abandoned cigar and breathing it in, slowly. Dean just stared.  
Castiel blew out a puff of smoke. “Your hair is longer, a bit. And you have more stubble,” he noticed, absently, looking at Dean with eyes squinting from the sun.  
“So do you. Is it bad?” Dean asked, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward.  
“No,” Castiel said. “I like it.” He handed Dean’s cigar to him.  
“You’ve been flying places. Where were you?”  
“Traveling, up to Venice and back down the Italian coast. Picking up jobs along the way. Tourism,” Castiel said, “is the paycheque I want, but not the life. I envy you.”  
Dean hummed, looking out into the waves gently hitting the dock. His plane’s wing was just below Castiel’s, and tipped it every few seconds. Dean looked back to Castiel. “I can’t stay long.”  
“A few days, at least?” Castiel asked, his boots nudging Dean’s ankle, innocent, but with enough control to send a light shiver through Dean’s spine.  
“I have a job in Antalya in four days.” Dean said, an unexpected rush of sadness peeking through his own voice. “I love Croatia, but I can’t stay.”  
Castiel smiled to himself, out into the ocean. “Don’t stay for Croatia,” he said, so softly, Dean almost didn’t hear. A bashful and strong form of want surged through Dean’s fingertips, and he looked down at his hands as Castiel reached for one of them. There was a rough feel to the pilot’s hands, and still so gentle, that the way he intertwined his fingers with Dean’s was enough to make Dean’s eyes close with content.  
“We’ll worry about those things tomorrow.” Castiel said. “Let’s go flying tonight.”  
There was a twinkle in Castiel’s eyes when Dean looked up, and he felt a grin through his face. He remembered the things they did last time, Castiel dragging Dean out to their planes, taking off first, and Castiel circling above the coast of Kukljica as he waited for dean to lift. They flew out above the Adriatic together, and over the country, halfway to Serbia before heading back and tucking themselves in the crevice between Kornat and another island Dean forgot the name of. The floated in that one spot for hours, talking and looking over each other, pretending that they didn’t know that the night would end with both of their clothes in the pit of Castiel’s plane.  
Dean leaned in close to Castiel. “Just like last time?” He asked, and the sun peeked through a the window onto their faces.  
Castiel smiled, and Dean could see the memories clearly in his lover’s eyes. Castiel was the personification of everything Dean chased with his career, the sting of air cold on his face, the sweet, faint smell of brine and gasoline when he walked past his plane, the gentle lull of the ocean when the day was coming to an end. Castiel was the epitome of all of those things, and it was obvious, just as Castiel squeezed his hand and said: “Just like last time.”

**Author's Note:**

> So... I know nothing at all about seaplanes or Croatia. And bounty hunters don't really exist. Okay so I watched porco rosso and liked the aesthetic i'm sorryyyyyy


End file.
